The Little Things
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Wilson remembers. HouseWilson friendship, no slash. Please R&R. Thank you.


A/N: Another out-of-the-blue oneshot.

HouseWilson friendship, as always. Please read and review.

Listen to something _**soft**_.

* * *

_The Little Things_

* * *

James remembers the early post-infarction days with details House has chosen to forget. He remembers that he had never felt more needed before and never after, and House had never needed another person more either. House had spent so much of that time angrier than hell, lashing out at everyone and anyone, being so cruel sometimes, Wilson almost wanted to leave for good. But Wilson never did. Ever. If House pushed him away, he pushed back harder. If House said something mean, Wilson said something softer. Just to piss him off more. Just to piss him off so much, he would actually make progress.

Wilson had spoken to the staff therapist a few times, while he saw House through the post-operative recovery. His crumbling second marriage and the full weight of House's caretaking had left him feeling desperate for an outlet, for someone to talk to honestly. The sad truth had been that he knew no one in his personal life; counseling had been his only opportunity. To this day, House had no idea Wilson had ever gone that route.

When he had sat in Dr. Calhoun's office, always a little uncomfortable because of her perpetual stoicism, he had talked about his marriage but mostly about House. She would silently listen for three-quarters of the session, and when she had spoken, it had only been to direct his talking or offer what he supposed had been advice, though it usually had left feeling more perplexed than anything.

"I guess some people must wonder why – I – haven't left, like the others," he had said once, squirming in the leather armchair all of her patients passed through.

"Why haven't you?" she had asked.

He hadn't been able to answer.

House spent three weeks in his hospital bed before they virtually kicked him out, his insurance company far from happy and the hospital itself wanting its room back. Despite all of Wilson's urging, he refused physical therapy until he had already been checked out for a couple weeks and had to admit that he couldn't go on the rest of his life as he had been. As Wilson had said once, House had only entertained one rehab session before dropping it, and meanwhile, it had been solely up to Wilson to figure out how to get House walking again to where he could do it on his own and not require Wilson's hawk-like vigilance. The first month after House had been discharged from the hospital, he'd spent the majority of his time in his apartment, using the money in the bank to live off of, while he nurtured his infantile hobbies of watching daytime TV, playing video games, and playing the piano while drinking and popping Vicodin simultaneously. Wilson had gone over to his place so often, he had virtually lived there, and six months after House's infarc, the second Wilson divorce had been finalized.

"When are you going to – oh, I don't know – get off the couch and live?" he had said to House one night, as he cleaned up the kitchen. The place had been a mess, what was left of it. Stacy had vacated just before House's discharge, and it had been safe to say that half of the apartment had been hers.

"I don't want to live," House had said without hesitation. "I finally have an excuse to sit on my ass and do nothing, and it would be stupid not to take advantage of it."

"Have you been eating?" Wilson had tried to ignore him, while leaning into the refrigerator. "All you've got in here is orange juice and – sour cream that I am throwing away, since it expired three weeks ago."

"Who died and made you mom?"

"House, this – this _thing_ has to stop. You've got to start being responsible for yourself again. You can't just stay holed up in this apartment and let yourself go."

"Why not? Is the world parked on my doorstep, begging for my attention? Is mankind floundering? Why don't you just leave me alone already?"

Wilson had sighed, standing in the kitchen doorway, head hung and hands on his hips.

"You need to go back to work," he had finally said.

"I can't even walk," House had shouted, his bitterness resounding throughout the apartment.

"You can't walk because you don't want to make the effort to learn again."

House hadn't said anything, sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out across it and his back to Wilson. The younger man had waited before bringing House a glass of water a mumbling that he'd be back with groceries with the following day.

Wilson had contemplated a handle bar for House's shower but wisely decided against it. Instead, he had had a bench installed and bought a plastic mat for the bottom of the tub. It had driven Wilson crazy with anxiety the first few months House had lived alone, the concept of House showering unassisted in an empty apartment. The nagging fear of an accident had left him constantly hoping that whenever someone called him, it wouldn't be more bad news.

House's nastiness had receded after those three weeks in the hospital. Once removed from the environment that he associated with pain, loss, betrayal, and hopelessness, he wasn't as provoked. Wilson had had a harder time with House's mood swings after the hospital discharge than before, actually. While bedridden, House had been on one mode only: world hatred. Once back in the apartment, variety had set in. Most of the time, House was bitter and still angry and generally uncooperative, but sometimes, Wilson was met with unexpected quiet. The total apathy in regards to himself and his life was a constant from the start, but on occasion, House had been – openly helpless. He had never thanked Wilson for anything, but the oncologist did have a small collection of memories that included moments when House had just looked at him, eyes full of defeat and blatant fear of being left. It had rocked Wilson to the core.

Wilson had worried about House's eating habits, amongst innumerable other subjects. If Wilson hadn't gone grocery shopping, House's refrigerator stayed empty, the cupboards too. Wilson had only seen evidence of take-out a few times, and when he didn't, House had just insisted that he wasn't hungry, he was trying to keep a girlish figure, he'd just get fat otherwise since he lived on the couch. Wilson had done everything in his power to keep from pulling out his own hair and force-feeding his miserable friend; instead, he had usually just stopped by the store or a restaurant. House's eating habits was another thing he had brought up with his counselor.

"Loss of appetite is a symptom of depression," she had reminded.

"I know," Wilson had said, rubbing his eyes. "I know he's depressed."

"Do you feel he isn't entitled?"

"Of course he's entitled. He lost his fiancé, he'll have a disability for the rest of his life. He's in chronic pain. The depression is just a result of all that."

"But?"

Wilson had pursed his lips. "I wish he wasn't."

The oncologist had never suggested counseling to House, though. He knew the idea was pre-destined to crash and burn. He also didn't bother prescribing anti-depressants, knowing a chemical imbalance wasn't the real issue. Besides, House had already been taking too much Vicodin. Canceling these two obvious remedies, however, Wilson had been further burdened with House's situation. He had known that if he didn't try every minute of every day to keep House above water, his friend really would let himself go permanently.

"If you are – honest with yourself, what do you think your caretaking means to Dr. House?" the counselor had asked.

"He – he wouldn't have anything if I didn't bring it to him. He wouldn't – eat, if I didn't provide the opportunity. His laundry wouldn't get done and his dishes wouldn't get washed if I wasn't around to do it. He wouldn't have his prescription refilled if I didn't do it."

"So basically – you are his life force. You are the only reason he isn't dying on his own sofa, why he still has some presence in the world."

Wilson had pinched the bridge of his nose, already ashamed of being this vulnerable in front of a colleague.

"I – guess so," he had whispered.

She had shifted in her chair, crossing her legs the opposite way.

"Do you think you're really helping him? Or do you think maybe you're enabling him to stay – uninvolved, apathetic?"

"It – it's complicated. I think I'd say it's a combination of the two."

Wilson had marked off the days in his calendar to the one-month point, upon which went to House's place and stole the TV remote, putting it on mute.

"Hey! I'm watching that!" House had loudly protested.

"You're going to walk."

"What? Where is this coming from? Gimme the damn remote, Wilson."

"Or what? You'll yell at me some more?"

"_Wilson_," House had growled.

"No. It's been a month, House. I'm done letting you vegetate."

"You haven't been _letting_ me do anything. I'm an adult. I do whatever the hell I want. And I'll _keep_ doing whatever the hell I want whether you like it or not."

"Oh, really? So how long do you think you'll be able to keep eating if I stop buying your groceries? How long do you think you'll be able to watch your damn TV if all you're doing is letting the bill collectors suck up the money in your bank account, while you're not making any more? The money's going to run out, House. Everything will. You can't really believe that this is going to last."

"I don't care!" House had screamed. "I don't fucking care! Don't you get it? I_ have_ believed that this was going to last! It'll last until you give up and leave and I can die here in peace! Why haven't you figured it out yet? Why don't you just get the fuck out?"

Wilson had gone from determined to crushed in a matter of sentences. His eyes, locked with House's, had moaned with pain. But he hadn't moved.

"House – I'm not leaving. I thought you had figured _that_ out. You can keep being a bastard if you want, but it's not going to unnerve me. I'm not surrendering. You're going to get off that couch, and you're going to start living again."

"Or what?" House had murmured.

"Or nothing. You can't even stand on your own, let alone fight me off."

House had looked away at those words – the truth. He had been leaving his front door unlocked, getting the delivery boys to bring food straight to him. Besides that, he didn't drink or eat anything except what Wilson gave him, so he barely ever had to use the bathroom, and when he had – it was an ugly fifteen minutes of literally dragging himself there. He _couldn't_ stand on his own, sure as hell couldn't walk. And the last thing he wanted to do was try; trying meant agony.

"So – let's have a drink and then we'll start," Wilson had suggested in a softer tone. That had been the beginning of House's Wilson-rehab.

In the safe walls of House's apartment, they had worked together to get House mobile again. They had started small: leg exercises. First, it had been twice a day, fifteen minutes at a time. Afterward, House had progressed to thirty minutes, forty-five, sixty, but it had always seemed to Wilson that they spent half the time bickering. Eventually, they had begun to practice standing and walking. Wilson had bought him his first cane beforehand, the stylish one with the curvy handle that he used from then on, until Wilson filed through it.

It made Wilson smile now, remembering the way House had clung to him as they practiced. The first time they had tried walking, it had only been from the couch to the kitchen counter, and House had gripped Wilson's arm desperately the whole time. That is what had made Wilson feel truly needed – the way House's pianist fingers had curled around his forearm, ready to drag him down, confessing all of House's fear.

"Don't let go."

"I'm not going to let go."

"Don't let go!"

"House! I'm not letting go!"

"Shit! It hurts!"

"Oh, shut up, you've only taken five steps."

The first time House had walked on his own, Wilson had felt like a father watching his baby take first steps. The oncologist had stood in the kitchen doorway and waited for House to walk to him from the front door. The only rule had been: no holding onto furniture or walls.

"Wilson – if I fall..."

"You're not going to fall, House. You have your cane, we've been practicing. You'll be fine."

"If I fall, you die."

Wilson had rolled his eyes. "I feel so threatened."

He had been so excited and scared, he had spent the whole five minutes ready to jump out of his own skin, as House tentatively took his first cane-accompanied step.

"Shit," House had exhaled to himself. Wilson had watched breathlessly. When House passed the sofa, Wilson had begun to smile, eyes glistening unnoticed.

Eternity seemed to have gone by, and once House had crossed, he took his last step of his first walk right into Wilson. They stood wordlessly together in his kitchen, House's free arm bent around Wilson and Wilson taking the opportunity to give House what was perhaps the only real hug they'd ever shared, even up until now. In hindsight, Wilson was sure that their minds had both been racing with a slew of gibberish.

_YoumadeitthankyouthankGodohmyGodholyshitIcanwalkyoucanwalkwediditfuckyeahithurtsdon'tletgodon'tletgo_. _Don't let go._

But there had been so much more than that.

"Dr. Cuddy has offered to give him his own department," Wilson had said happily to the counselor. "Diagnostics."

She had smiled.

"Is he happy?"

Wilson had paused. "I – don't know. I don't think 'happy' is the right word. He's _better_."

"Good."

During the first few months after House had started walking on his own, he had developed a habit of hovering around Wilson, whenever they walked together, almost as if he had still been afraid of falling. He probably had been. He had always gravitated toward Wilson's shoulder, usually following behind the oncologist. Sometimes, they had brushed against each other, and Wilson had gotten the feeling that it was House's way of expressing gratitude, besides giving himself some security.

The first time they had gone to a bar together post-infarc, House had been in a good mood before taking his first sip. He and Wilson had sat shoulder to shoulder, and he had given the oncologist a look that Wilson still hadn't forgotten. And he had smiled – with that smile Wilson only ever saw nowadays when they were alone together.

Had House ever been happy since the infarction? Probably not, Wilson thought. But as long as House gave him that smile every once in a while, Wilson could sleep at night.


End file.
